


Tom: For One Night Only.

by GranolaSuite



Category: British Actor RPF, British Comedy RPF, British RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom, hiddlestoners
Genre: Anglophile, Cute, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Inspired by Tay-to, Just read it because it's awesome, London, Meet-Cute, One Shot, Romance, Spooning, Sweet, Tay-to, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, hand holding, life changing, one night, sweet romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7219756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GranolaSuite/pseuds/GranolaSuite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're sitting on a train when you overhead the passenger in front having an angry conversation. Paparazzi photos? In an embrace with a pop-star? Heaven forbid! You strike up a conversation that changes the course of your night and, perhaps, your life.</p><p>One shot inspired by the whole Taylor Swift kerfuffle. I have no opinion on the matter, but thought it would be an interesting thing to write about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tom: For One Night Only.

"No, no, this isn't good enough. Why is this even in the paper?" He hisses into the phone. His face is turned into the smeared glass window, facing the inner wall of the Tube line as we're flung from station to station.

His eyes dart up, angry, looking straight through me. He returns to the paper and his conversation.

"I don't care if it's good publicity. Make them stop. Get rid of them. Issue a statement. Better yet, I'll put it on Twitter." He presses down hard on the screen a few times.

"It's a bit hard to slam them down now, isn't it?" I offer, hoping to lighten the mood, even slightly.

"If I could throw it, I would, but that'd likely end up online too, right?"

I shrug. "If you're lucky."

He stops and considers himself. A taught, rigid face relaxes and a smile emerges.

"Tom." He reaches across to shake my hand.

"Isobel."

His hand is warm and it lingers a moment. "Your accent?"

"Australian." I nod. "Funny. I was mistaken for both an American and an English person by two different groups of tourists today."

Door alarms sound as we arrive at the next station. The seat next to me vacates, and Tom slips into it.

"You definitely don't sound American," he assures me through a light laugh.

"Thank you. I think? Is that what I'm meant to say?"

He shrugs. "Who knows?"

"How about you? Did you sort your problem out?" I nod in the direction of the newspaper that's clasped in his hands.

"Who knows? It was a stupid music video. Nothing more."

"Can I?"

He hands me the newspaper and there he is, on the front page of the Daily Mail. A photo of him in a decently romantic embrace with some young singer, and a headline that declares it a world exclusive.

"Looks pretty… natural," I mumble.

He snatches the paper back. "Not you, too."

"No, I'm just saying. It's pretty damning if it's not true."

"Hall and Oats would have a field say with this," he muttered.

I laugh loudly, heads turn through the carriage to find out where the noise was coming from. Tom’s body started rattling with laughter next to me. At least I could make him laugh, right?

"Alright, let's change the subject. I'm only going to get more annoyed if I keep thinking about it. Why are you even here?"

"Busy being a tourist."

"Really! What did you tourist today?"

"Uh... Buckingham Palace, the two Tates, and the river taxi, of course."

"Was our Queen in to receive you?"

"No." I frowned. "I was really hoping for some tea and scones but, no, she wasn't in residence."

"How very rude," he teases, his laughter light and airy.

"I'm very offended." I pout.

"Well, I'm off at the next station. Shall we remedy that?" He asks.

I narrow my eyes at him. "Am I the remedy to another malaise?"

"That may be," he wiggles his phone in my face, "if I hadn't already Tweeted that the article was rot. I don't have to prove anything."

Crowds swill around, and it surprises me that he could walk through them virtually unabated. Still, we walk the platforms, around and past people with suitcases and briefcases that clack along the tiled floors. Up the stairs and out onto street level.

Was he kidding? Like I was going to say no to him. I swore to myself that it was just a dream. You don't just happen upon people like him and get invited out for afternoon tea. Do you? Of course not. Still, I certainly wasn't going to look that over abused cliché of a gift horse in the mouth.

Darkness had set in by the time we emerged out into Piccadilly Circus. LCD screens lit up brightly, their artificial light thrown out into the world. I stopped walking and looked up in awe. Tom turned to face me.

I pull the hood of my parka over my head, light rain starting.

"What happens now?"

Tom opens an umbrella and offers me a spot underneath. "We walk. Then was find somewhere for afternoon tea." He offered me the crook of his elbow. "Shall we?"

"This place is incredible."

"You've not seen the Circus at night?" He asked.

I shook my head. "No, and it’s my last night here."

"Not tonight. Tonight can’t be it."

“I’m no happier about the prospect than you are.” I point back at myself.  

He claps his hands together and looks at me, eyes wide. “Right. Isobel, as it’s your last night here, how about I show you somewhere I know? Do you have allergies, aversions, preferences?”

“No allergies, I try to steer clear of confrontation, and I’m straight,” I teased.

“You what?” Tom laughed.

“Sorry, play on words.”

“No, I know what it was. It was brilliant. Quick. Are you carnivorous?”

“And ravenous.”

“Good Lord,” he gasps. “Let’s go find you somewhere, then, shall we?”

 

Condensation licks the windows of the small Italian place we settle on. Close by the window, I watch the droplets of water dribble down the glass. Red, blue, white, orange, whatever colour happens to flash onto the screens behind them.

“Okay, Isobel. I know that you’re a tourist, and that you’re quick witted. What else is there to know about this brunette lady with amazing eyes that I met on the train.”

Jeepers. I hope the restaurant has a de-fib machine around somewhere. “So besides being stunningly beautiful -.”

“Modest, too, I see.” He smiles and rearranges his cutlery.  

“Correct,” I laugh. “Seriously, though, I am a photographer. I’m trying to work my trip into a bit of a work junket. Might write a book about London when I get home. But that’s cliché, isn’t it?”

Tom leans across the table and wrinkles his nose. I’m sure my heart stops. “Maybe, depends on the content. Will you be in it?”

I snap my finger. “Maybe I’ll put _you_ in it. That’ll guarantee me at least one sale. Mum will buy it.”

A waiter approaches, a slight jerk of recognition as his eyes come to rest on my companion. An awkward exchange of pleasantries follows, though it includes a free bottle of wine. Score! It wasn’t long and we’re back to our discussion.

“Tell me, do you photograph people, places, or … I don’t even know, really.” His fingers scratch at the edge of the napkin next to him. Nervous? I can’t imagine it.

“Anything, really. At the moment I love architecture. I mean, this city is stupidly beautiful.”

“But you’re leaving us Isobel. Why?”

“Urgh. Tell me about it.” I tease at a hangnail. “I am not looking forward to going tomorrow at all.”

“It’s a ridiculous flight, isn’t it?” He leans back as dinner is placed in front of him.

Clearly we were on a rush order.

“Twenty-four glorious hours.” I smile. “Cattle class, too, so even more intimate.”

 

“At least let me buy you ice-cream.” I bounce along in front of him, and I’m walking backward so I hope he’s looking out for me.

“Ice-cream? Do you realise how cold it is?”

“Coffee, then? Something warm.”

We opt for a walk along the Thames after I’ve taken what feels like a thousand photos of Piccadilly Circus, Tom included. It’s hard not to want to take a photo. I want a photo, a souvenir of our night together.

The train is full, and a few more people look our way as we step into the carriage. Everything happens so quickly underground. As soon as one train leaves, another arrives, and each train is just as full as the one before it. Tom’s quiet for the time being, and we step out when we arrive at Leicester Square, a whole stop and about five minutes away.

“We could have walked if it weren’t for the rain,” Tom says what I’m thinking, and I can do nothing but smile. “What?”

“I was thinking that,” I answer, stupidly, like a teenage girl with the world’s biggest crush.

I frown at the thought. Surely it couldn’t be anything of the sort. Not this soon. It’s only one night, it’s going to be lovely, but then I’m going to get on a plane tomorrow and in a month he’ll have no idea of who I am or where I’ve gone. A nice gesture. He gets his mind off things, and I get to see the sights one last time.

“Tell me something.” Tom holds his umbrella out or me again.

“Sure.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I’ve got a bedsit in Lambeth. Super cheap. Super dodgy.”

“Sounds it.” He held out the crook of his arm again.

We’re silent as we walk through Leicester Square, down past the theatres and restaurants. I stop and take photos on my way: the lights, the colours, the pomp and ceremony on theatre nights. Tom watches on happily, patiently.

“I’m a bit disappointed the Gallery’s shut.” I gesture as we walked past.

“Did you get a chance to see it?”

“Yeah. One last time would be nice.”

Trafalgar Square is still littered with people, and I convince Tom to climb one of the lions around Nelson’s Column.

“What are you… are you going to set a timer on that thing?”

I pull a phone from my pocket. “Are you kidding? Selfie time.”

“Very clever.”

As I line up the camera and our picture, he leans in and kisses me on the cheek. Of all the things. Of all the things on Earth. I’m sure I can feel my stomach physically flop about and my heart leap through my chest. I’m stupidly euphoric and we sit quietly for a few minutes. Tom’s warm against my back and I can feel each of his fingers on my stomach like small pulses.

He jumps off first, collects my backpack and helps me down with the offer of a hand.

“You’re a proper gentleman, aren’t you?” I mused.

“I do try, Miss.”

I walk beside him through the Embankment archway. It’s bathed in orange yellow light and we consider pulling into a pub for a cheeky pint. But, the thing is, I don’t want to share him. My time is limited and I want do suck the marrow out of every last bit of it.

“Do you have a curfew? Do you need to be back by any time?” Tom asks, well aware that time is ticking away.

I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I have a key. If you want, for a laugh, we can go back there?”

 

Another Tube ride and we’re off at Elephant and Castle, and walking up to my little single bed room. There’s no one on reception, but a small party taking place a few floors up from us.

“Party central.” Tom looks up and around. “Are they good to you here?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. It’s only for sleeping anyway. Plus, tomorrow. That’s me gone.” I slip the key into the lock and the door creaks as I heave it open.

Someone’s left the heater on.

“Nice and warm.”

“I think I’m okay with that.” Tom peels his jacket off and tosses it on the bed.

“Can I interest you in some really cheap tea or coffee?”

My room is big enough for a single bed, a chair and a desk, and Tom settles himself on the bed, back to the wall. Pointy-toed shoes dangle off the edge and he reaches for the telly remote.

It’s natural, it’s warm, and I’m completely taken by him. I know who he is, of course, and that nothing more could ever come of this. But, wow, the thought is enough to get me through the night. I take him his cup of tea and settle in next to him. There’s a dodgy film playing on television.

“Do you mind?” Tom waggles his phone at me.

“Go for it. I should probably check mine, too.”

“I’ve not asked. Do you have someone?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“A boyfriend? Girlfriend? Cat collection?”

I laugh. “No, none of the above. The Sea Monkeys died, unfortunately.”

Tom laughs. “I’ll bet they did.”

He boots his phone; he’d had it off the entire time we were walking around. It’s charming, and a huge deal. So many people you meet now are always on their phones, and he’d put his away for me.

“Did you really?” I leaned in to him.

“Did I what?”

“Have that off all night?”

“Wanted to pay attention to you, didn’t I?” He’s looking at me instead of his phone.

“That’s very flattering. And thoughtful. Thank you.”

It’s quiet but for the mumbled happening on the telly. Tom scrolls through his Twitter feed, seemingly pleased with what he’s seeing, though he frowns and looks calm at alternating intervals. I press into his side and drop my head onto his shoulder. I’m comfortable enough with doing that, and he’s comfortable enough to wrap his arm around my shoulder.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, the usual.” He tosses the phone onto the desk, face down. “Tell me.”

“Hmm.”

“What are you plans when you go home?”

“I don’t know. Keep working, I think. You?”

“I’m busy for a little while. I’ll get a few films in the can and then have some time off.”

“I like the sound of that. I promise I’ll go see them when they come out.”

“I’ll hold you to that, you realise?”

“I’d like to see you try.” I pull back and look at him.

“Maybe I’ll turn up on your doorstep and drag you to the cinema with me.”

“You know, I don’t think I’d be totally offended by that.”

“I’ve really enjoyed tonight,” he admits.

I’m a little surprised, and I hope it doesn’t show. “Me, too.”

Regardless of our admissions, we fall into silence and watch the telly. It’s boring, and we begin yawning. I shuffled up to the top of the bed, kick my shoes off and lay down. Anyone knows you don’t stay awake long when you do that. My eyes are heavy and I drop off to sleep. I wake only briefly when I feel a warm body slide up behind me.

“Tell me, what’s your strangest habit?” Tom asks quietly.

“Spooning with men I met only a few hours ago.”

He laughs, and his body tightens around me, pulling me further into a hug. “Okay, despite the whole spooning thing.”

I roll onto my back and look at him. “I only use a black ink pen in my diary. And only one brand. Papermate Grip Roller. They’re stupidly expensive, but they glide beautifully. I nearly cried because I thought my pen had run out and then I found another in my suitcase, so that was okay.”

“That’s a bit strange, I’ll admit. I think I’d say cute, though.”

“Cute. Sure.” I roll my eyes. “What about you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Overdress?”

“I can assure you, as someone on the other side of the computer screen, you are never overdressed.”

“No?”

“Where were you going tonight, anyway?”

“Oh, I had tickets to a movie with some friends.”

“You ditched a movie for me?”

“Of course I did.”

“Can I keep you?”

“Of course.” He smiles. “I do require regular washing, feeding, grooming and affection, though.”

“I’m sure I can manage that.”

“What do you want in life?” he asks. I wonder if he’s being philosophical, or whether it’s just a general question about a five-year life plan.

“I want everything. And to be happy.”

“Everything’s broad, but I like it.”

“I want to improve always -.”

“Well, you’ve improved my day, so five points, Miss.”

I smile. “What about you?”

“I want a fullness of experience. A bright, busy life.”

“Without pop stars.”

He laughs. “Yes, exactly like that.”

“What is your life even like?”

“Well, it’s a new kind of normal, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I’m just a dodgy photographer.” I sat up. “And hang on. I need another of this moment.”

I crawl back across the bed and angle the camera at him. “Intimate shots,” I laugh. “Sold to the highest bidder.”

“You would.”

“Promise I won’t.” I snap one more and put the camera away.

 I lay back down and, immediately, we curl into each other again. Like pieces of a jigsaw. Spooning. Is that not one of the most wonderful things? It is, and we talk quietly a few moments until I fall asleep again, a warm kiss behind my ear to seal the deal. It doesn’t matter that this is exciting, thrilling, and strangely sexy, I can’t keep my eyes open.

Morning brings a strange sensation. I’m sure I went to the pub and got completely rotten drunk, but there are two tea cups on the desk. Two used teaspoons, and the telly is still talking away at me. Only, Tom is gone.

I’m not completely disappointed. I knew deep down it would only be for one night, so there’s no point getting angry. I head downstairs and out onto the street. There’s a café on the corner and they’re keen to sell me one final full English breakfast. A small pang of disappointment starts to set in.

It’s the end of my trip. The most amazing thing I’ve done. I’ve seen parts of the country I never thought I would and, now, I had the more delicious memories of the night before burned into my brain and into the memory card in my camera.

One last tidy of my room and I start to get emotional. I don’t want to go. I feel at home. I feel like I need to be here, but my pre-booked Heathrow Express ticket has other ideas. I shrug on my jacket, line my suitcases up near the door and get ready for checkout. The door creaks as I pull it open.

Tom is standing there in a suit and tie. Cleaned up, shaved, and ready for his day ahead.

“So, I didn’t dream you, then?” I smile, feeling the warm sting of tears prickle at my eyes.

“Please, will you stay?”


End file.
